I thought it would be a great idea to publicly commit to taking part in National Novel Writing Month this year. Now I have the expectations of my readers – all one of you! – resting heavy on my shoulders.
Everytime I tell my mother that I am taking part in NaNoWriMo she asks me what it is. NaNo is basically a personal challenge – the goal is to write 50,000 words in one month, and there are forums and word trackers available on the site to help motivate you and remind you every time you look just how much progress you have made.
I will one day fill that little word counter bar with the bluey greatness of my creativity!
This will be the third year I am taking part in NaNo. I can’t really remember much about the first year I did it because I forgot I was planning on taking part almost immediately. Last year I had a well-meaning stab, but I had extended essays due and a College Ball to run – excuses, I know! I logged 2246 words nonetheless, which I know is shit but will claim as a valiant effort.
The outline is almost finished, the novel has been added to NaNo’s website, and I have been going to the library after work every day (yes, even before dinner) to prepare for the gruelling road ahead. I’m thinking 2,000 a weekday and 2,500 over the weekend. Yeah. YEAH!
The project I’m working on this year is the exact same one I attempted last year, and the time before that, but with some awesome additions and much better planning. I don’t want to give away too much about the plot (that’s inner circle info right there) but it’s something I’ve been enthusiastically adding to for many years, and am finally at the point where I feel I can write it. I know I said that last year too, but last-year-self was talking shite.
I’m going to pin my word count bar to the front page of this blog for all to see, and will try to update it frequently as I go. I would say I am going to create weekly update posts, but I’m way too flakey and busy for that, and instead maywrite one large self-evaluation at the end of the month.
If anyone else out there is NaNo-ing, leave a comment! Hell, you can even make me your writing buddy. I promise to be totally non-threatening. Progress-wise, anyway.
I have a novel idea (in both senses of the word, ha) and over the last few weeks I have set to work writing out plans, thinking out character arcs, and all the other things you are supposed to do before you can convert brain waves into Word documents. The plot for this novel has been knocking around inside my skull for about five years, and though there have been a few false starts before, I really feel like I’ve got the whole thing pinned down and ready to write now. So, itching to get some words out, the first thing I did was, of course, go to every stationary shop in town and stare at the notebooks.
I like to handwrite my drafts, you see – my laptop is too clunky to haul between home and work everyday and is filled with games and Netflix and other destroyers of concentration. From an artistic perspective, it also just feels more creative to write things by hand: the words just flow out a little easier, and it imbues one with a kind of wanky pretentiousness that makes all those infodumps and rogue passive verbs feel positively Shakespearean. So I thought I would celebrate the decision to try and get this novel down by swapping my tatty bits of file paper for a sleeker, spiral-bound solution.
What happened next will blow your mind!
I couldn’t find one I liked. It was a waste of time. However, when I got home later that night I noticed a little black leather bound notebook buried away on my bookshelf. I remembered then that this little book was given to me two years before on my birthday by a group of close friends; I had never written in it, wanting to save it for something special. It occurred to me that this little notebook could be the perfect thing to start writing my novel in – what words are more special than the first proper draft of the novel you’ve been working on since you were seventeen?
That’s when the doubt set in. This notebook is seriously nice – beautiful black leather on the outside, unruled ivory card on the inside, and my friends’ names wishing me well inside the front cover. Could I spoil it by scribbling in stories of witches and monsters? I mean, I am pretty good at making myself barrel straight a through something and leaving the word-cull til last, but my spelling is atrocious, I change my mind on character names all the time, and I never finish anything anyway. I’d only ruin it.
Part 2: the proper attitude.
All I can say to those thoughts are ‘fuck you’. I was essentially deciding that the words I want to write aren’t worth the paper they are written on. Mad at myself for being such a coward, I immediately broke out the fanciest pen I own and scrawled the words ‘Myths and Legends’ at the top of the first page. (This later proved to be a bad idea when the outline I intended to write of the novel’s internal mythology turned into an overall plot summary, but still).
If you don’t have any confidence in yourself, you can’t expect anyone else to. Literally no one is ever going to notice or care that my fancy notebook is full of scribbles – if anyone does ever look at it, they will instead see that it is filled with something important to me: the elusive novel I have spent the last few years going on about.
The moral: always write in fancy notebooks.
I played a game recently called The Novelist. In the game you are asked to make a series of choices on the behalf of the game’s protagonist and his family, and what you choose affects how successful the novelist’s career and family life end up. At one point you are asked to choose whether to spend a bit of extra money you have on placing an advert for your novel in a magazine, or on a family-related matter; in my playthrough I chose the family, and my novelist wrote later in his little journal that his belief in himself was shaken. He took it as a vote of no-confidence in his writing.
This is why I use my fancy notebook now. It is a vote of confidence in myself, and in my ability; something every writer, artist, poet, dancer, or anyone else who is attempting to create something needs to have before they can expect anyone else to believe in them too.
In the wise words of Journey, don’t stop believing.
*Much applause and emotional scenes from the audience*
Edit 13th Nov: As of today I have filled that notebook from cover to cover with my scribblings, and moved on to an equally beautiful and special new one. Who would have thoughts that notebooks could give you such feels?
When I first started this blog, I set myself a few writing-based goals. The first of those goals was ‘to write one short story every fortnight’.
Progress so far: I totally forgot I was going to do that, and so haven’t, even though it seems like it would be a really good idea.
Now observe, as I masterfully construct my excuses!
I had revision and final exams, which I think are pretty good reasons to put personal and creative writing aside for a bit. After that I embarked on a new schedule made up of equal parts sleep, Netflix, socialising, and job-hunting – activities which had also been forsaken in the run-up to finals. Now I have found myself some employment and a place to live, I can finally turn my attention to my true ambition:
I will write all the words!!
Although I haven’t kept up with my targets, I have been writing since I set that initial goal for myself : I’ve written two fairly long but incomplete SF shorts, and one much longer, completed slash fic (I was really bored, and why not?). The slash fic is actually the best thing I’ve written in a while, and not just because… y’know, sex!! but because of actual proper quality of writing (if I do say so myself).
My idea notebook has not been neglected, though, and has been dutifully filled with every scrap and whisper of creative thought that my mind has created.
There is a point to this post.
I did learn one thing during this period of inactivity – writing is a very powerful tool for emotional expression. Duh, I hear you say, but let me elaborate.
Recently I have had a few stressful nights – pacing room, muttering to self, tearing hair out, that sort of night – and found myself ill-equipped to deal with the bad emotions. You see, I am usually very good at dealing with stress: I would say that the word stress is not in my vocabulary if I hadn’t already used it a few times. However, my methods for dealing with stress are not the most constructive, and so I have been trying some new techniques recently. These new techniques are nothing more elaborate than actually feeling my feelings rather than suppressing them, but it means a whole lot of alien emotions for me!
Writing your feels.
When the pacing stops and the boiling pot of emotional soup has cooled a bit, I have found myself getting the urge to write – more accurately, I have found myself getting the urge to articulate and explore the bad emotions via keyboard bashing. So I sat down and allowed myself to be completely honest and write unfiltered, with no consideration of audience and no expectation of sanity.
The result scared the shit out of me. I produced some of the sickest (in all senses of the word) writing that I have ever produced. Articulating my thoughts showed me how desperately confused and scary they were. I found myself being incredibly scathing towards anyone whose face dared to flicker behind my eyes while I was busy venting; I found myself being especially scathing about myself.
It was the first time in a long time that I wrote with ease and with true passion; even if the emotion was negative, the writing was electric. Maybe it was because the scraps I wrote were definitely going to remain private, or because there was no need to consider plot or editing, but those words were honest and frightening.
I am probably sounding quite melodramatic, but it was like that thing that people sometimes do on TV when they tell someone to respond to a question quickly without thinking in the hopes of getting a truthful response. I think that little trick is complete bullshite, but writing without any of the pressures of audience or quality produced the mythical response that quipping sitcom folk seek.
How does this relate to writing short stories or longer bits with the intention of sharing? Well I personally feel a similar release when drafting stories on paper with pen before typing – it allows the mind to say what it wants with no little red squiggles or autocorrect to put you off. When you’re typing you can edit as you go. When you’re writing in pen you have to just let it all spill out unless you want a confusing mass of lines crossing your page (which can, in themselves, actually be quite satisfying). No one is going to read the first draft of a story when it’s scribbled at the back of a notebook, so there is no need to filter. Just get it down.
Anyways, the point I’m trying to make is that I feel like I have found a way of writing that allows me to be totally honest and just get to the point of what I want to say (you couldn’t have used it when writing this post? I hear you ask). I feel like the staleness that sometimes comes with committing yourself to a writing project has been shaken off. Maybe I was just putting too much pressure on myself before, but sometimes hitting that flow is difficult, and turning off the critical part of your mind is impossible. It took me a while to find a way to stop quivering in front of my screen, thinking Oh God, what will my yet-to-exist audience think?; now I have learned how to just grab a pen and scribble, and not be afraid of the consequences.
There may be some reading this thinking that it’s all very obvious and that I’m over-thinking, and to that I say fuck off! Over-thinking is natural, even necessary in writing! But so is letting go and just writing without placing any expectations on yourself.
Is creating art more about letting go or over-thinking? Are both processes mutually exclusive? These are the questions we must ask of ourselves. Or maybe we shouldn’t.
In late February I went along to listen to a talk given by Baroness P.D. James called ‘Murder and Mystery: the Craft of the Detective Story’. She gave us a brief history of her life, focusing on how she developed her Adam Dalgliesh series and Death Comes to Pemberley, which was recently adapted by the BBC. It was an interesting insight into the thoughts and creative process of such a noted author, but one thing which James said really stuck with me:
If you are an author, you will write.
It’s not a radical idea. It’s the genius paradigm: you couldn’t stop Shakespeare writing plays, Mozart lived for composing masterpieces, painters gonna paint. The idea that true creative souls must find an outlet is precious to those of us who believe ourselves to be creative souls. The question ‘why do you write?’ has been polled a hundred million times on every writing site which has ever existed, and the response ‘because I need to’ (or something along those lines) is always popular.* Creativity is a force of personality, not something which can be learned from WikiHow, and for unpublished authors and poets in particular the idea that writing is a compulsion rather than a skill makes us feel less like lazy, feckless wannabes and more like tortured but time-restricted geniuses. Stephen King probably has probably been quoted saying something to support this idea, so it is law.
*Super scientific research: my writing site of choice (Critique Circle) asked the eternal question in February, and 54.6% of those who responded answered, ‘Writing is to free the stories trapped in my head. They will not let me rest until I get them out’. I am going to scientifically refer to this category of response as the ‘genius category’ because I’m not entirely convinced I used the word ‘paradigm’ correctly in the second paragraph… (Here is the page the poll is on, for your viewing pleasure. You need to be a member to view the page).
Fake it ’til you make it.
While I completely understand the thinking behind this idea and often feel the romance of creative passion and the oppressive drive of imagination myself, I also think it’s a horrible way to think about writing. When someone says ‘I know I am a writer because I need to write all the time or I’ll go mad!’ it turns creativity into a pissing contest. Every other Wordslinger in the room examines their own drive to write, and if it’s anything less than ‘Dangerously High’ then ahhhhh… Hobby writer.
There are two ways to respond to the call of the genius category:
Acknowledge you aren’t motivated by a constant and unrelenting urge to write;
Pretend that you are.
Lots of people choose option one, and I don’t blame them. There are plenty of other great responses to the question, ‘Why do you write?’ which may not place you in the genius category, but hold a different and equally valid sort of pride. For example, the second most popular response in the aforementioned poll was, ‘Writing is for people to enjoy. I want people to laugh, cry, think, be comforted, or be challenged’ (29.2%). This category of creative – and this, I think, extends to all of the creative arts – has the audience in mind. They are the storytellers, concerned about creating art to be shared. It’s a motivation I think we can all understand. Some want to entertain, some want to provoke; it’s difficult not to consider how your work will be received, and so we tailor the style, the content, the meaning, with our particular reader in mind.
Personally, I hate it when people put so much emphasis on the entertainment side of storytelling that they scowl upon those who deign to think about meaning (see my previous post which includes a mini-rant on the subject) and so I am suspicious of anyone who calls themselves a ‘storyteller’, but I can see what they are getting at.
‘Art without an audience is simply an act of mental masturbation’
– Couldn’t find a source for this, lots of people have said it..
On to the second way one can respond to the challenge of the geniuses: fake it. This is what I do.
I don’t simply mean that one should proclaim oneself to be a creative mastermind at all opportunities, Wilde-style (I mean, if one wants to do this one can but I doubt one’ll make many friends). What I do when faced with the problem of wanting pure author-ness to pump through my veins but not really feeling it – whether this be due to writer’s block, distraction, or feeling like writing is becoming a bit of a chore – is try to get into the ‘author zone’. I suspect many of you will already get what I’m saying.
For me, that means putting on my glasses, busting out my fancy pen and notebook, and dressing in my ‘lounge jammies’ in an attempt to play the part of the sloppy but sophisticated young soul who will write many future novels. I even call myself by a different name while I’m writing, because if I adopt the character and look the part I am much more likely to get in that zone and finish that story. Starting this blog was part of constructing that role, because ‘Jude Jones, Author’ is a modern writer. I even read more now than I did a year ago, because ‘Jude Jones, Author’ is aware of what the market is doing.
The cake is a lie.
So, when the polls are busted out and I’m asked ‘Why do you write?’ I hit the button that says ‘Because I have to’ because, rather ironically, I feel I have to. And it’s all a lie – there, I’m breaking rank, I said it! Day-to-day me has a dangerously vivid imagination, yes, but it’s usually occupied by characters that I have no intention of writing about. To produce short stories, chapters, or even blog posts, I need to put on my costume and adopt a persona – I need to convince my mind that it belongs to an author before I can start producing the kind of ideas and standard of writing which I aspire to someday publish. I split myself a little, maybe, but only to separate the useless Netflix-addicted slob from the inspired literary mastermind which I know is in there somewhere. And it works. I’m not saying that what I produce is genius, but at least I feel like I’m producing something which fits the image I want to achieve.
As my idol, Dr Frank N. Furter, once said, ‘Don’t dream it, be it’. Well, once a day I put on my corset, draw on my eyebrows, and perform the fabulous number called writing. I just hope I don’t get shot with a beam of pure anti-matter at the end. I might break character.
Like most wannabe writers, I intend to write a novel at some point.
It’s all planned out – mostly in my head, but some parts on paper too – and I’ve already knocked out a few chapters here and there. The problem is, I don’t have any time to commit to writing it. At least, that’s what I tell myself and anyone who asks about it. The real problem is, I’m lazy and impatient. I love writing, I love my someday-novel, but I’m easily distracted and have a tendency to not finish things (see last post on ‘The first bad idea I ever had’).
This is the main reason why I decided to try my hand at writing short stories.
I can usually bang out a thousand words or so before my mind starts to wander, so short stories seemed like the perfect way for me to work within the bounds of my short attention span and actually maybe someday possibly finish something. All I would have to do is come up with a concept for a story and I would be golden.
Now, I know that there is a huge difference between writing a novel and writing a short story; when you’re trying to fit a whole narrative into 2000 words every single one of those words has to be doing something. What you can take a chapter to say in your epic sprawling trilogy, you can only afford a few words in your magazine piece. The technical aspect of writing a shorter piece of fiction is something which I went off and tried to learn through a summer a flash fics and Asimov’s SF magazine, and I found that it suited me. I’ll write the novel someday, but for now short stories are to be my children!
Short stories are awesome.
In theory, anyway. The problem I find myself running into is this: where do you start? Coming up with an idea that you can fit into 2000 words is difficult, especially when you’re used to breaking out the A2 paper and developing the shit out of everything. From reading the short stories of other writers it seems that shorter fiction can, at its best, convey a huge amount of poignancy and emotion in the most efficient way possible. Edgar Allan Poe only needs a couple of pages to spook you, and J. G. Ballard can turn your brain inside-out in only a couple hundred words.
I want to write something which is meaningful or thought-provoking in someway, but it feels inorganic to start with the thought and build a narrative around it. On the other hand, when I come up with what I think would be an interesting story or plot I feel compelled to try and drag a ‘point’ out of it, whether the point is there or not. The situation is made more difficult by the fact that on any of the writing forums I use the general feeling is anti-thought, pro-plot: writers should be concentrating on telling interesting and exciting stories, not trying to say anything in particular. I don’t mean to suggest that anyone is saying that stories shouldn’t have a message or a meaning behind them – just that admitting to thinking about this message is not the done thing. It’s not cool. You seem like a pretentious asshole if you’re putting meaning before storytelling.
Of course the best stories are those in which the meaning is subtle and emerges from the story effortlessly, but how the hell are you supposed to create meaning consistently if you’re not allowed to think about it? At the same time, however, ‘I want to illustrate the dangers of reading too much Philip K. Dick’ is not the easiest of starting points, and can require the same sort of mental exhaustion to pull a story out of as… well, reading too much Philip K. Dick.
So where do we start?
With the creative ignition or the resulting thought? Is starting with a message like going outside before you’re fully dressed? Is not thinking about the message like trying to make your breakfast with your eyes closed?
I’m probably over thinking this. Who says you can’t come up with both simultaneously? No one. Both story and message evolve together, along side each other, to eventually become a coherent whole.
But it’s a frustrating process. Sometimes you have a point to want to convey, but you can’t figure out how. And that sucks. Sometimes you have a story you want to tell but you can’t help feeling it’s a bit pointless or vapid. That sucks too. Do all stories need to convey a message? No. But as a reader the stories I enjoy most are those which force me to put down the book and just think about that for a minute. Page-turners are brilliant, but I’m a fan of the thinkers. Those are the kind of stories I want to write.
I thought I’d begin my foray into the world of blogging by writing about the first thing I ever wrote. This is going to get sentimental.
Before I start, there are two separate stories saved on my laptop which I consider to be ‘the first thing I ever wrote’. One is the actual first thing – a couple of short chapters of a story about a kid spy called David Barton – and one is the first thing I ever cared about writing – a 56 chapter novella about a bunch of school kids.
The actual first thing I ever wrote:
The spy kid thing was never really going anywhere. I was about 13 when I wrote it and a big fan of the C.H.E.R.U.B. and Alex Rider books, but I don’t remember much about where the idea came from or what the story was going to be about. All I have are a few short passages in which a young boy watches as his house gets blown up with his family inside; I know that his dad was a spy, and he was going to become a spy, but that’s about it. Style wise, the writing is pretty good, which I think I can say without sounding cocky since I’m using my present day stuff as a comparison. It’s nice to have but quite frankly I had forgotten it’s existence until I stumbled across it a few years ago; it’s not very important to me.
The novella, however, is probably the dearest and most personal thing I have ever written.
I wrote it in about three months when I was just turning 15. It follows a group of teenagers as their lives become increasingly complicated and difficult, eventually climaxing with the pointless and accidental death of one of the MC’s closest friends. Each chapter is told from the perspective of a different character, though most of it follows either the amiable but troubled MC and an older, more confident boy who pushes him around.
I re-read the whole thing fairly recently, and though it is stupidly formatted and the the writing ain’t great, it’s quite a funny and thoughtful little thing altogether – definitely not bad for a first try. What really struck me about it, though, is the difference I found between myself as a writer now (supposedly ready to get serious) and then (n00b).
Why 15-year-old-me is a better person than me-now-me:
While now I’m reluctant to share a single sentence of my work without having rigorously edited it first, I used to share each chapter of that novella with my friends, family, and perfect strangers on the internet the second after I wrote it. Today I have trouble finishing a flash fic in a week, but I wrote that sprawling mess in 12, plus 38 chapters of a sequel.
I remember seriously enjoying writing that novella – I’d slump down in front of my computer for hours after school and tap away at the keyboard. Sure I never edited anything or even scanned my spelling, but I don’t think I’ve enjoyed writing anything as much as I enjoyed writing that. It is, at once, a reminder of what I can achieve and what I haven’t since.
Part of the problem is that the characters from that novella are still very much alive and kicking in my mind. Not a single day goes by when I don’t think about that story – I know the MC’s family tree inside out and have expanded the original plot way beyond what it originally was. I have a tendency to obsess a little over the worlds I create, like all writers, but the world of this particular story – ordinary as it is (there aren’t even aliens) – is the most vivid I’ve ever created.
That damn story haunts me, but I fucking love it to pieces. Whenever I get a bit stuck on what I’m writing, I think back to how I felt when I was writing after school on my creaky old desktop, surrounded by tatty old posters of Gerard Way and Eragon. Those old posters are now pinned to the wall of my room in college; the drive to write must be around somewhere.